


Slow Burning Down

by keepingthecloudsaway (rainydayrambling)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Gen, Just a little in-between moment, M/M, Post-4x06/07, Sadness, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 13:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18074651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainydayrambling/pseuds/keepingthecloudsaway
Summary: Quentin leaned against the railing of the penthouse's little balcony.  It was night again.  Somehow it seemed there was more night than day lately, even though he assumed that in reality it was about as even as ever.Behind him, inside, the Monster was puttering around looking for anything to entertain himself and Julia worked on the problem of the puzzle of him.  Quentin had been helping, only he hadn't been really, because he couldn't -- fucking -- concentrate on anything.  Hyperaware of the Monster if he was inside somewhere, or worried about what he was getting up to when he was gone.  It left Quentin in a perpetual state of exhaustion and anxiety, run down and worn out and jittery, like he was always over-caffeinated and under-rested, which he probably was.#Quentin and Julia work on helping the Monster as a way to help Eliot, and Quentin remembers sharing a cigarette.





	Slow Burning Down

**Author's Note:**

> This self-indulgent, sad little fic was inspired by this tumblr post: http://crossroadscastiel.tumblr.com/post/183328123522/okay-but-hear-me-out-quentin-and-eliot-sharing-a
> 
> And thanks to my sweet friend Danika for the thought that Q would be the one smoking first.
> 
> I appreciate comments more than air! Validation is at least as good as oxygen!

Quentin leaned against the railing of the penthouse's little balcony.  It was night again.  Somehow it seemed there was more night than day lately, even though he assumed that in reality it was about as even as ever.

Behind him, inside, the Monster was puttering around looking for anything to entertain himself and Julia worked on the problem of the puzzle of him.  Quentin had been helping, only he hadn't been really, because he couldn't -- fucking -- concentrate on anything.  Hyperaware of the Monster if he was inside somewhere, or worried about what he was getting up to when he was gone.  It left Quentin in a perpetual state of exhaustion and anxiety, run down and worn out and jittery, like he was always over-caffeinated and under-rested, which he probably was.

He'd come outside for a break and for fresh air and for a cigarette, with little more than a gesture to Julia to let her know where he was headed.  Not that she didn't know.  Quentin had been smoking a lot more since he'd worn the mantle of Brian.  Even if Brian hadn't gotten him addicted, he imagined he would have picked the habit back up.

He pulled a cigarette out of the pack he'd been keeping in his pocket and then had to pat around to find a lighter.  Before he found one, the door opened behind him and he slumped down to rest his head against the railing.  He didn't even have the energy to be angry about the Monster following him out here.  He didn't have much in him at all anymore.  With his head resting on one arm against the rail, his other was left to hold the cigarette, hanging over it.

There was a quick click and Quentin looked up to realize that it wasn't the Monster who had followed him out, but Julia, and she'd used her own lighter to light his cigarette for him.

"It's bad for you, you know," she said, even though she already had her own cigarette lit between her fingers.

"Yeah, well," Quentin said, dragging himself back into an upright position.

Julia turned to lean against the railing beside him, looking out into the sky over the city.  For the first time since all of this started, Quentin thought about how all of this might be affecting Julia -- not her god powers, or lack thereof, which he had thought about often, not even the impending threat of the Monster, really, but how she was dealing with Quentin dealing with the Monster.

"Hey," he said.

Julia took a drag and nodded.

"Are you -- I don't know -- are you okay?"  It sounded ridiculous as soon as he said it, of course.  She wasn't okay.  She couldn't be okay.  None of them were at this point.  And they'd already had that conversation.

Still, being a goddess had made Julia particularly good at understanding Quentin even when he was being even less comprehensible than usual.  Or maybe she had always been this good at it.  Quentin wouldn't be surprised if he had just missed it.

Julia breathed smoke out into the sky, and Quentin watched it go, perfectly ordinary, not a scrap of magic to it.  He wondered, briefly, if it was worse for Julia not being able to do any magic at all, or if it was somehow better not to be able to touch it when there was so little to have in the first place.  Then it occurred to him how strange it was, to see the sky without stars, and his chest pulsed with a pang of homesickness that shouldn't have made sense, because he had lived his whole life in New York -- only he hadn't, not anymore.

"I'm worried, Q," Julia said.

Quentin knew what she meant but didn't answer, taking a drag instead.

"About you," Julia added after a moment.

The confrontation with the Monster the night before had been intense, Quentin got that.  He felt bad that Julia had been there.  At the time, he wasn't really thinking about her, about anything except needing to stand between the Monster and Eliot as much as he could.  He hardly thought the words before they came tripping out of his mouth, and he didn't regret them because he couldn't regret them, and from a distant, outside sort of place, he understood how that might make it all seem worse.

"I know," he said.  "I get that."  That was all he could say, really, wasn't it?

He glanced at Julia for just a moment and found her already looking at him, her brow furrowed in visible concern, her eyes wide and watery, either fighting off emotion or just too tired.

"Are we gonna talk about..." but she trailed off and didn't finish.

Quentin put his cigarette between his lips and leaned back, both hands pressed to his eyes.

Very often, these days, when memories popped into his head uninvited, they were memories of dirt and wood and tile, long hours of quiet camaraderie half-remembered, warm nights surrounded by the chittering and humming of creatures that spoke with human voices like a chorus of lullabies.

But now he remembered Brakebills.  Long before almost any of this had started.  A night in the fall maybe, close to the end of term, the middle of a party at the Physical Kids cottage.

Quentin didn't remember exactly how long he had been there at the time of this memory.  Long enough to know everyone -- Alice and Margo and Eliot.  Long enough to consider them all friends.  Long enough to think he knew them, though looking back on it now, that thought was laughable, or it would have been if it didn't fill him with a sick, longing sort of feeling.

He had been enjoying the party, actually.  He'd come outside to avoid Eliot pressing another drink into his hands.  He'd already had enough wine for everything to feel a little silly, for the edges of everything around him to go a little blurry, and he was afraid that if Eliot spotted him without a drink, he'd suddenly have a signature cocktail in his hands, and then Quentin would cross the threshold of pleasantly buzzed, and he wanted to be able to remember this night.  Just a normal night, at a party with his friends, having fun.  Having fun at a party.  Alone, this made him laugh a little bit, slightly at himself, slightly at the joy of it.

Somewhere inside, he'd found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.  He took the lighter and one cigarette from the pack, and he came outside alone.

The night was crisp, a little too cold, or at least it would have been if he hadn't been a bit drunk.  As it was, the smoke from his cigarette mixed with his crystallizing breath, stark against the black of the night.

When he heard the door open behind him, he sighed, though he couldn't really be mad about it.  Then: "Quentin?"

He turned to find Eliot coming toward him, an exaggerated expression of surprise on his face.

"Innocent Quentin Coldwater smoking a _cigarette_?  I'm going to have to speak with that Alice Quinn -- she's a bad influence on you."

Quentin rolled his eyes and used the cigarette to hide a smile.  "Not that innocent," he said, cigarette bobbing between his lips as he spoke.

Eliot just raised an eyebrow and plucked the cigarette from Quentin's mouth, lifting it to his own between two long fingers.  Quentin watched him, made bolder by the wine maybe, without trying to hide it.  In that moment he felt simple, honest affection for Eliot -- his friend, who had inexplicably taken Quentin under his wing in this strange new world, made this a place where he could belong, without question.  And if there was a little flutter of attraction beneath the surface, as Eliot closed his eyes to breathe in the smoke, and then tilted his head back to release it, well, Quentin could handle that, couldn't he?  It wasn't like he'd never found himself attracted to his friends before.

With a final sigh, Eliot opened his eyes again and turned to look at Quentin.  He must have realized Quentin had been staring -- Quentin, insecurities dulled by the wine and the night and the good mood he was in, didn't really care for the moment -- but he just offered a soft little smile, one Quentin realized he only ever saw when there was no one else around, and placed the cigarette back between Quentin's lips.

Eliot was sort of beautiful, Quentin thought, not for the first time.  He somehow blended _effortlessly mysterious_ with _charmingly unselfconscious_ in a way that made you want to know him and made you like him immediately.

"All right, Coldwater, enlighten me.  I have to know.  What did you 'Oops I Did It Again?'"

For a moment, Quentin was unsure what Eliot meant, and then he remembered what he'd said himself a moment ago: not that innocent.  He laughed a little and shook his head, pleased that he was starting to understand Eliot's particular language, a little thrown off by the accuracy of it.

He didn't answer of course, just let Eliot interpret what he would from his evasion, his gestures.  And Eliot hadn't pushed.  He had grinned at Quentin's expense, and then they had just stood there together, being quiet.  Quentin looked around at the backyard, enjoying the nip of the chilly air on his skin.  Relieved, that he had made it here, finally, that things were finally going the way he had always known they were supposed to go.  Eliot beside him, magical friend.

Every once in a while, he let himself look at Eliot as he passed him the cigarette, fast burning down.  In these moments, if his gaze lingered a little on the elegant grip Eliot kept on the cigarette, the affectless way he seemed to be handling it around Quentin, he chose not to mind.

They stood there together until the cigarette had burned almost completely to ash.  Eliot took one last drag, tapped it a couple times with his thumb, a straightforward but elegant gesture, and then held it to Quentin's mouth for him to have the last, fingers hovering at his lips, cool against Quentin's warm mouth, and Quentin had just looked up at him, a little helplessly, as he breathed it in.

Now, on the penthouse balcony, Quentin was grateful for Julia's presence beside him, because he knew she cared and because without her, he might have stayed out here all night.  Sometimes, once he started remembering, he couldn't stop.  It hurt, there was a physical ache in his chest, down at the root of it, when he thought about the situation too much, missed Eliot too much, but that, at least, was a way to be close to Eliot again, to have him here.  When he went back inside, there would only be the Monster, and that was far worse.

"Q," Julia said.

He looked up at her and found her looking down at the cigarette in his hand.  He turned his attention to it and realized it had burnt almost all the way down to the filter.  He wished the filter wasn't there, that he could let it burn all the way down to his fingers: sharp, instant pain, the grounding force of a persistent ache and tenderness.

Julia watched him take the last of it, the same wide open and yet somehow inscrutable expression on her face.  Maybe she understood everything, and she encouraged this because she recognized that smoking was, at least, a slow way for the damage to be done.

As Quentin stubbed out the cigarette on an ashtray that had conveniently already been here when they all moved in, Julia rested her head against his shoulder.  Quentin looked up again at the starless sky, but before he could get lost, Julia straightened.

"Come on," she said.  "Let's get back to work."

And saying nothing, rubbing at his eyes, Quentin followed her inside.


End file.
